


True Story

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Also acknowledged Roger Federer/Mirka Federer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4602423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A phonecall one summer afternoon brings chaos into Roger and Rafa's lives.  But how will they deal with it?  Can they just tell the truth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Antonia for your comments! Hugely appreciated. And to P for checking my Spanish. ;) And of course to Captain Adonis for your comments and also for the conversation that was the inspiration for this fic in the first place. ♥

The phonecall comes in the drowsy afternoon, when the sun hangs silent over the ocean and even the cicadas are hushed in the heat. Rafa fumbles for it on the bedside table. Roger grumbles, half awake, and wraps himself around Rafa, breath against the back of his neck as Rafa answers the call. “Hola, Benito,” he says. A pause, and then, “Todo está bien?” Even through the sleepy haze Roger can hear the edge to his voice and it wakes him up a little.

“Qué pasa, Benito?” says Rafa. “Es mamá? Papá? Quien?” Rafa sits up, breaking out of Roger’s arms. Roger snuffles and rubs his eyes, fully awake now.

On the other end of the line, Benito is talking. Rafa glances over his shoulder to where Roger is lying back against the pillows. “Sí,” says Rafa. “Él está aquí.” Then he says, “Bueno, hasta pronto,” and thumbs the call to a close.

“What’s up?” says Roger.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.” Rafa looks down at the blank screen of his phone. “He says he is coming with Toni. They need to talk to us. Both of us, no? He said you and me.”

Roger frowns. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says.

“No,” Rafa agrees.

 

The doorbell rings less than ten minutes after the phonecall. Rafa is still pulling on a t-shirt when he goes to open it. Roger is taking a bottle of water from the fridge when Benito and Toni Nadal file into the kitchen. Rafa comes in after them.

“Hey,” says Roger, nodding hello.

“Roger,” says Toni, always slightly distant still, even though Roger’s been coming here for years.

“Okay,” says Benito, in English to include Roger. “I’ll just say this straight. Someone’s got photos.”

A beat or two of silence. “Of… what?” says Rafa.

“Of the two of you,” says Benito. “Out on the boat yesterday.”

“What?” says Roger, after a moment. “That’s not possible. We were too far out.”

Benito shakes his head, leaning heavily on the counter of the kitchen island. “The equipment, it’s always getting better,” he says. “And it could have been someone in a little boat, something quiet, a canoe or something you didn’t notice.”

Roger takes a mouthful of water and recaps the bottle. “Shit,” he says, sharing a glance with Rafa. They had taken the boat out so far that the shore was hazy in the distance, nothing around them for miles. It had been a glorious day of lazy sunbathing on the deck and cooling off in the water, and sex, of course, under the open sky. If someone had photos, there was no doubting what was in them.

“For now we have it contained. In Touch called me and said they were negotiating, said they’d pay whatever it took. The Spanish one, you know? We’ll have to return the favour, of course, stage some photos or do an interview or something, but I know the editor. They’ll keep it under wraps. Then we’ll buy the photos and that should be that.”

“Okay,” says Rafa, sitting down heavily on a chair by the island. He’s gone pale.

“So we should be okay. But I just wanted to talk to you, let you know what’s happened.”

“Yeah,” says Rafa. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I can’t believe this,” says Roger. “Those… I can’t believe this is possible. We were alone out there.” He doesn’t remember looking--he doesn’t remember much beyond Rafa, the sun, and the sound of the sea--but he can’t help but feel he’d _know_. He’d have felt eyes on him.

“Look,” says Benito. “They’re parasites. Parasites with very long lenses and a lot of money to pay for equipment. Whoever it was probably planned this, invested in what he’d need, knowing he’d get a fortune for the pictures whether they were published or not. But once he sells the photos, he’s got no more rights over them. When we own them, we’re in the clear.”

“Yeah,” says Roger. “Okay. Thanks for, you know.”

Benito’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “No problem,” he says, glancing at the name. “Actually, I’ve got to take this. It’s the editor. Hold on.” He swipes to take the call. “Lucia,” he says. “Hola.” He drifts into the living room.

Rafa is slumped against the island and Roger stands beside him, arm around his shoulders. “This is bad, Rogi,” says Rafa, quietly. Toni hasn’t said a word and he looks away now. He’s always been a little embarrassed at their intimacy.

“Yeah,” says Roger. He’s rubbing Rafa’s back, just gentle circles. “At least Benito is handling it.”

Toni grunts. “Sí,” he says. “But next time, go to the house in República Dominicana, no? No one see you there.”

Rafa shakes his head. “I think we have to buy an island for no one see us,” he says.

“Maybe,” says Toni, as if it seems a sensible proposition.

Benito returns and his face is pale. “What?” says Rafa, and Roger’s heart sinks. “What now?”

Benito clears his throat. “This… could be a problem,” he says. “Lucia didn’t get the pictures. Apparently In Touch was suddenly outbid. By TMZ.”

“TMZ?” says Rafa.

“A gossip website in America,” explains Benito. “And I don’t know anyone there.”

Rafa has gone rigid, wide-eyed. Roger feels the tension in his back. “So… what does this mean?” he says.

“It means I need to get Jordi on the phone,” says Benito. “Maybe if Nike lean on them…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. It’s pretty obvious he considers it a long shot. He thumbs open his contacts and calls Jordi, and this time he stays in the room.

 

Jordi tries, and Roger calls Tony Godsick to see if there’s anything he can do. There are calls to lawyers in Spain and the US, but there are no legal grounds to block publication. Phonecalls to the TMZ offices get lost in a tangle of transfers and obfuscation. Benito explains grimly that none of them have contacts at TMZ and an American gossip blog doesn’t care to build bridges with the agents of European sports stars who are, realistically, coming towards the end of their careers. Roger grimaces at that. He’s on the phone with Tony and Mirka throughout the afternoon having tense conversations. Tony tells him he’ll deal with sponsors. “Do you want me to come?” Mirka says. He looks at Rafa, asking silently if it’s okay, and Rafa nods and kisses his shoulder. So Roger says, “Yes, please. Please come.”

The photos are posted that evening on TMZ. They spread quickly from there to other gossip blogs all over the world. Soon they’re all over Twitter and “#Fedal” is a trending topic worldwide. They sit in the living room, all four of them, watching the proliferation like the progression of a natural disaster.

“This is bad,” says Benito, quietly, his forefinger curled against his mouth. His phone is finally silent; he has redirected all calls to his office. “Stonewall them,” he’s told his PA. “No comment on anything.” The living room is silent as he does Google searches and more and more articles and pictures appear. They’re a little blurry, but there’s no doubting who they are. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal on a boat together, Rafa in his pink shorts and Roger in a more subdued grey, sunbathing and swimming together, splashing, and later lounging, arms around each other, kissing. There’s one where Roger clearly has his hand shoved down the back of Rafa’s shorts. It’s like being peeled open, thinks Roger. It’s like what they do to monkeys in cruel laboratories while they scream.

The photos keep coming. Toni has stopped watching. Benito looks away. “He must have been there a long time to get so many,” says Rafa. “I see no one. You?”

Roger shakes his head. “I wasn’t really looking at anything but you,” he says. 

“What are we gonna do?” says Rafa.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” says Roger. It’s like watching a kaleidoscope. A dizzying, awful kaleidoscope, with headlines that reduce him and Rafa to something sordid. A tryst, a love-fest, a gay sex scandal in the Mediterranean. “Close it down,” he says. “Close the laptop. I can’t stand any more of this.”

Benito does. For a long moment the room is silent. “Okay,” says Benito, finally, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Here is what I propose. Jordi’s coming in tonight, and Mirka and Tony will be here tomorrow. I’ll have them picked up at the airport--on the tarmac, no media--and then we’ll all come here. We’ll have lunch and we’ll talk about it. Discuss what we’ll do.”

Rafa nods silently and Roger says, “Okay.” Toni nods too, a tense affirmation of the plan. Or of the idea of having a plan, at any rate.

Benito stands up and tucks the laptop under his arm. “I’ll have lunch delivered. Until then, you guys, I don’t know. Rest. Think about it. Have you got food for this evening?”

“I don’t think I can eat, Benito,” says Rafa.

“Well, do if you can. And don’t go online. Okay? I mean it. Computers, phones, TV off. There’s no point making yourselves sick about it. I’ll review it all tomorrow and we’ll take it from there.”

 

It’s easier when everyone’s gone. It’s easier just to drift back into the kitchen, lean against the countertop, and turn when Rafa comes up behind him and hold him, face pressed against his shoulder, Rafa’s hair curling against his cheek. “Ohhh, Rafa,” he says, and Rafa understands. He presses a kiss to Roger’s cheek, to his lips. “What are we going to do?” He runs his hands through Rafa’s hair and holds his face, his beautiful face in his hands. His Rafa, the secret he’s kept for years.

“I don’t know, Rogi,” says Rafa. 

Roger presses his forehead to Rafa’s and exhales. He feels like it’s a breath he’s been holding for hours. “Remember when we used to wonder what would happen?” he says.

“Yeah,” says Rafa. That was in the early days, when it was all stolen time, secret stumblings to hotel rooms, burning kisses in locker rooms, a whirl of texts and chance encounters. Over the years it had become something more stable. Orchestrated visits to Mallorca and Dubai and Switzerland, familiar hotel suites on the tour, the complicity of their families and teams to allow them their time. Those heady days of risked outings were behind them. They thought.

“I can’t believe it’s happened. I just…” Roger shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Sí, I know,” Rafa sighs. He drops his head against Roger’s shoulder and then pulls back, hands on his head, eyes a little wild. “I never think this would really happen. Not now, no? Not anymore.”

“I need a beer,” says Roger. “I think this calls for a beer.”

“Sí,” says Rafa, with feeling. He sits at the island while Roger uncaps two bottles and places one in front of him.

“Well,” says Roger. “Here’s to… whatever comes next.” They clink the bottles together and take deep mouthfuls.

“When I was young I thought for a while, maybe I would just be out,” says Rafa. He aligns the beer bottle directly on the ring of condensation it had left on the countertop.

“Yeah?” says Roger. 

“Yeah,” says Rafa. “Benito said me, ‘don’t do it. You don’t need to be the first, Rafael.’” He laughs a little grimly. “Now I am the first anyway.”

“Both of us,” says Roger.

“Sí,” says Rafa, softly. “Both of us.”

“God, I remember looking at you back then,” says Roger. “You were so sexy, you know that?” He thinks of young Rafa, dark-eyed and seductive. Pure physicality on the court, sweaty, stringy hair after a match, his face melting from fierce concentration to the gentlest of smiles at the last ball, win or lose. In locker rooms unashamedly naked and draped languorously over sofas in players’ lounges. Luminous and captivating. “You made me want you so much.”

“Sí, I remember,” he says. “I remember your frown, no? Always when you look at me.” He presses a finger to Roger’s forehead, between his eyebrows. “Trying to figure something out.”

Roger laughs a little. “Yeah, trying to figure out why you constantly made me think of sex.” He leans into Rafa’s shoulder and bites him gently.

“I knew this,” says Rafa. “For long time I wait for you to know it, too.”

“I always felt like you could see right through me. You know? The way you used to look at me.”

“Waiting for you,” says Rafa. “For years, waiting for you to realise.” He slides his hand around Roger’s neck, pressing their foreheads together.

“Until the Battle of the Surfaces,” says Roger. “I felt like I couldn’t wait one more second.” He remembers that evening in Manacor, the dim light seeping into Rafa’s apartment through the shutters, the realisation that somehow they had contrived to be alone. Finally, finally pushing Rafa against the wall and kissing him fiercely.

“Is this what we will tell them, Rogi?” says Rafa, smiling. “Tell them how we went to bed together then? Your shirt still on when you fucked me.” He bites his lip at the memory.

“Your shorts still around your thighs because I couldn’t wait to get inside you.”

“Your hand around my cock, so good.”

“Yeah, let’s tell them that. Tell them how we came in, like, two minutes, we were so hot for each other.”

Rafa laughs. “How we couldn’t stop, no? All night, having sex.”

Roger stands up, sliding his stool back out of the way, and pushes Rafa against the kitchen island. “Mmmm,” he says. “And every time after that, in hotel rooms, in locker rooms, how we fucked any time we could.” He kisses Rafa hotly. “How we still do.”

“How I love when you fuck me, no?” Rafa gasps when Roger kisses and sucks under his jaw. “When I get your dick in me.”

“Ohhhh, Rafa,” says Roger, half-moaning. “When you suck my cock, when I eat your ass. Let’s tell them all of it.” He pushes his hips against Rafa’s.

“Come on,” says Rafa, his hands splayed on Roger’s back, his thighs spread apart. “Let’s go to bed.”

Roger groans and follows him up the stairs.

 

Later, lying in tangled sheets, Roger says, “Hey, Raf,” and nudges him in the ribs.

“Mmm?” says Rafa, fucked out and melting against Roger’s shoulder. He’s glistening with sweat, still panting a little.

“Imagine they got photos of _that_?” He laughs.

Rafa laughs a little, too. “I guess they couldn’t see us on the floor of the boat, no?”

“Thank god,” says Roger. He curls himself around Rafa, arm over his waist. “This is just for us.”

“Sí,” says Rafa, patting Roger’s chest. “Only for us.”

“So what will we really tell them?” 

“I don’t know, Rogi.” He spreads his hand over Roger’s side, holding him. “I think more difficult for you, no? With Mirka. I don’t think much surprise that I am gay.”

“What?” says Roger. “You think?”

“Benito tell me, always rumours about me. On the internet.” He sighs. “Stories from when I was younger. Me and Feli. Me and Carlos Moya. Me and Pico.”

“You didn’t have a thing with Moya, though, right?”

Rafa shakes his head. “No. But Feli and Pico. I guess not as secret as we think.”

“I guess not,” says Roger. “But not as obvious as us, in the end, huh?”

“Mmm,” says Rafa. “No. Well. We tried, no?”

“Yeah,” says Roger. “We tried.” He rolls back and brings Rafa with him, till they’re lying entwined on the sheets, Rafa tucked in against him. The night is hot and even with the window open there’s hardly a breeze in the room.

“I guess we have to tell them the true,” says Rafa, after a while. “Is the only way to explain, no?”

“Yeah,” says Roger. “I guess.”

“What will you say? About Mirka and me?”

“I don’t know.” Roger has hardly ever been able to articulate it to himself, let alone explain it to the world. How he loves them both, how they make him complete. How happy he feels, deep down, that he has the two of them and that they’ve found a way for this to work. “I just… I don’t want them to get the wrong idea, you know?” he says. “Those headlines today were awful. I hated them. If they have to know about us, I want them to know how much you mean to me.”

Rafa strokes his chest, curling his fingers against Roger’s jaw. “Sí,” he says. “I want this, too.” He presses a kiss to Roger’s shoulder, exhaling against him.

“That’s it’s not just sex, you know? That we spend time together. That I need to spend time with you.” He sighs, stroking Rafa’s back, holding him.

Rafa leans up on his elbow and looks down at him. “I know, Rogi,” he says. “They will understand. When we tell them, no? They will know.”

“Yeah,” says Roger. Something in Rafa’s eyes gives him faith. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

 

Mirka comes in the door just after midday, kissing Roger and hugging Rafa, kissing him on the cheek. “Hey,” she says to him,

“Hey, Mirka,” says Rafa.

“The girls send hugs,” she says to Roger. “They said to tell you good luck. I’m pretty sure they think you’re playing a match.” 

He laughs as she puts her suitcase in the living room. Jordi and Tony follow her inside. “I guess I can use the luck anyway,” he says. “Did anyone see you at the airport?”

“No,” says Mirka. “No photographers that we could see, at least.” She blows hair out of her eyes. “I guess you never know these days.” She shrugs at him and half smiles.

“Heh,” says Roger. “True.”

“The others are already here,” says Rafa. “This way.” They have a dynamic by now, the three of them. As if Roger is shared territory and they navigate their way around him equally. Mirka allows them their shared space as if by instinct, aware of Rafa’s hand at the base of Roger’s back as he shows her to the table on the deck. Roger reaches his hand back to her and they sit side by side. Tony sits by Benito and they confer in low voices, and Toni sits beside Rafa, Jordi on his other side.

“This is a beautiful place, Rafa,” says Mirka. The deck is overhung with jasmine, the trellis offering shade from the sun, and there are palm trees in the garden on either side of the path leading to the pool with a view out over the sea.

“Thanks,” says Rafa. It’s suddenly strange to Roger that she has never been here before. He points out to her in the view the things he notices, the things he loves. The way the sea breaks against the rocks below, the spread of palm trees against the sky. He tells her what it looks like at dawn, how the sea is set on fire in the early haze. How in the evening the night creeps up from the horizon, dark and dotted with stars. She half looks at what he points out to her and half watches his face as he tells her.

“Here,” says Toni, taking a bottle of white from a cooler and pouring for everyone at the table. They toast to good health, and despite the circumstances, as he clinks glasses with Mirka, Roger feels a kind of gratitude that he can bring her here and show her this at last.

“So,” says Benito, once the pasta and salads have been served and they have begun to eat. “Rafael, Roger. Have you thought about this any further?”

“Yes,” says Roger, glancing to Rafa and back to Benito. Tony is listening carefully, his sunglasses on. “We think we have to tell the truth. Or, at least, as much of it as they need to know.” A squeeze of Mirka’s hand beneath the table.

Benito nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “I think you’re right. The coverage today has been… well. You probably don’t want to look. ‘Gay love tryst’ and all that. A lot of photos of you looking sad or pissed off, Mirka, and some of Xisca, too.”

Rafa shakes his head. “I called her this morning,” he says. “She says she is fine but she didn’t sound fine.”

“Look, it’s going to be tough, there’s no two ways about it,” says Tony. “We’re going to have to do some tricky maneuvering to get through this, hopefully with most sponsorship intact.”

“Yes, Rafa,” says Benito, holding up a hand before Rafa even speaks. “That is a priority. This is about making sure the world knows Roger is no Tiger Woods, basically. You as well, but Roger more so, since he’s married and has kids. That means finding an angle on this and making sure we’re in control of the story, and maintaining sponsorship is proof we’ve done that. We need the sponsors to stand by you guys.”

Rafa sighs. “Okay, I understand,” he says. “I hate it but I understand.” Toni silently pats his arm.

“Nike are ready to back you,” says Jordi. “As long as the story is right.”

“And what’s the right story?” says Roger.

Silence falls. Everyone has finished eating and Toni aligns his knife and fork on his plate with a gentle clatter. After a moment, Benito shrugs and says, “Honestly, guys, we’ve never wanted to pry, but… what exactly _is_ the story?”

“What?” says Roger. “Are you serious?” He puts a hand on Rafa’s thigh, just looking for contact.

“Look,” says Tony. “It’s not like you talk about it.”

Roger looks at Rafa, who shrugs. “I guess that’s true,” says Roger.

Rafa shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Is strange,” he says, a coy smile dimpling his cheeks.

Roger takes a hold of his hand. “We’re gonna have to explain to the world soon,” he says, gently.

“I know,” says Rafa, interlacing their fingers and squeezing. “Is just… is difficult. This is always for you and me, no?” He glances at Mirka, whose face is unreadable behind her sunglasses.

Beside him, Toni shakes his head and takes a deep drink of wine. “I think we need some more, no?” he says, reaching for the bottle and pouring again, his own glass first this time.

“Okay,” says Benito, his tone echoing the general strain around the table. “I think you guys need to come up with some kind of statement. We’ll work on it with you, me and Tony.”

Roger takes a mouthful of wine. He imagines it: some dry PR-written press release, trying to encompass all that this is to him. All that they are, him and Mirka and Rafa. Reproduced on websites and in newspapers and magazines side by side with those photos, those terrible, invasive photos. Just one more article in a series of articles, as if they’re hiding, as if they seek to distance themselves from the truth. He replaces his glass on the table. “No,” he says.

Tony raises his eyebrows. “You can’t say nothing, Roger,” he says.

“I don’t mean that.” He looks at Rafa, then at Mirka. “I mean, let’s just do it low key. Why not at a press conference?” He looks around the table and sees disbelieving faces.

“Woah,” says Tony. “Steady on. Maybe we don’t need to go that far.”

“Look,” says Roger. He takes another mouthful of wine and leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table. “There is no way to explain this in some press release. There isn’t. We need to talk to them. Let them ask questions.” Rafa runs his hands through his hair and Roger can feel his discomfort. “Come on, Raf,” he says. “Can you imagine putting this in a press release? What this means to us? Something that will make them really _understand_?”

“But, is necessary they understand?” says Rafa.

“Yeah.” Roger sits back, taking Rafa’s hand in his. “It is. For me it is. I want them to know this isn’t just some sex thing. To know that I love you. It’s necessary.” Another general silence, a certain shifting in seats. Toni in particular frowns, looking at his nephew.

“What about a one-on-one interview? With Oprah or someone?” says Tony.

“What, like we’re Lance Armstrong?” says Roger. “No. Look. An interview is too… controlling. Let this play out. Rafa and me, we’ll do a press conference. We’ll let them ask questions. We’ll answer what we can, and we’ll do it honestly.”

“And what will you say?” says Toni. He’s sharp. Roger can feel the challenge in it.

“The truth,” he says.

“You see, the truth seems, you come here, you spend time with Rafa, then you go home. Home to your wife. Are you saying you tell them this is the life for him? He’s happy with that?”

Rafa covers his face. “Stop, Toni,” he says.

There follows a rapidfire conversation in Mallorquín, none of which Roger can catch, apart from his name. Rafa’s legs are crossed, and Toni’s too, and they punctuate their argument with tight, pointed gestures. Roger shares a look with Mirka, and he knows what it says, the expression in her eyes.

“Enough,” says Rafa in English. “This is the situation, no?” Toni does not look mollified but he nods, a grudging assent.

“What about Mirka?” says Benito. “At the press conference?”

“No, no, not me,” says Mirka, shaking her head. “I’m not the famous one. Anyway, someone’s got to stay with the children. Your parents will be tired when I get back,” she says to Roger.

“It would be, ah… useful if you could be seen to support Roger,” says Tony, delicately.

“I support him every match he plays,” she says. “Every tournament he goes to. And sometimes that means being with the kids when he’s not around.”

“Mirka doesn’t have to be there,” says Roger. “We’ll talk about me and Rafa. It will be obvious that Mirka supports me. As she always does.”

“Okay, okay,” says Tony. “Your decision, of course.” He sits back in his chair and shares a glance with Benito. “So, how do you want to do it?”

“You’re playing Hamburg, right?” he says to Rafa. Rafa nods. “Let’s just do it there. Your pre-tournament presser.”

“That’s a week and a half away,” says Tony.

“Yeah,” says Roger. “We’ll just let it be for a while. We have nothing to prove, nothing to defend ourselves against. Then, when we’re ready, at a tournament, just like every other press conference, we’ll talk. We won’t even announce it. We’ll just do it together.” He looks around the table, seeing the frowns of doubt. “Raf,” he says. “What do you think?”

Rafa is silent, considering for a moment. Then he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I like it. We do it.”

“Yeah?”

Rafa looks at him and smiles like the sunrise. “Yeah.”

 

Tony and Benito put out statements saying only that Rafa and Roger will address the situation in due course. Sponsors seem to be in a holding pattern, waiting for them to speak. At home in Zurich, there’s more paparazzi interest in Roger than he’s used to. A couple of times, when he’s walking down the street in the city with Mirka and the children, a journalist sticks his phone in their faces and starts asking questions. “What’s going on between you and Rafael Nadal?” they ask. “Mirka, did you know?” They push away and clamber into their car, waiting nearby, and escape home, and they stay there until it’s time for Roger to leave. Now and then he googles Rafa and sees the same shaky phone videos, Rafa frowning, holding up his hand against the onslaught and saying nothing. It’s a long week.

“I’m so sorry about all this,” he says to Mirka, when he’s saying goodbye. “I know it’s shit for you.”

She puts her hand on his face, gently, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I know,” she says. “It is what it is. Go. Tell them the truth. We’ll be here when you get back.”

He kisses the kids and tells them he’ll be home soon. Myla nods and walks away, but eventually he has to pry Charlene’s arms from around his neck, telling her, “I promise. Just a couple of days, I promise.” She waves to him from the door when he gets into the car to take him to the airstrip. He waves back to her, his heart breaking a little. He shuts his eyes and leans back against the seat. Then he slips his phone from his pocket and texts Rafa: _On my way_.

“Hey,” says Rafa that evening, when he arrives at the hotel in Hamburg. It’s strange to go straight to Rafa’s suite, no subterfuge this time. No separate rooms. Someone comes out of a doorway down the hall and double-takes. He half smiles at her as she scrambles for her phone, and he thinks he hears the camera click as Rafa closes the door behind him.

“That will probably be on Twitter,” he says.

“Well,” says Rafa, shrugging. “A lot more on Twitter tomorrow, no?”

“Yeah,” says Roger, laughing a little. He props his suitcase against the wall and then turns towards Rafa, taking him in his arms. “Have you eaten?” he asks, after kissing him.

“No,” says Rafa. “I wait for you.”

“Room service?”

“Sí, I think is best,” says Rafa. They order from the menu and Roger puts his case in the bedroom, open on the suitcase rack, while they wait.

“This is so weird,” he says.

“Qué?” says Rafa from the living room.

“Unpacking in your bedroom,” says Roger. 

“You do in Mallorca every time,” says Rafa, appearing in the doorway.

“Yeah, but never on tour,” says Roger. Rafa crosses his arms, leaning against the doorjamb, laughing a little. “Look at you,” says Roger. “You look so gorgeous.” He looks soft and sun-kissed, smiling with an ease Roger hasn’t seen all season.

Rafa shrugs, dipping his head, toeing the carpet with a trainer. Roger crosses the room and kisses him, pressed against the doorway. They break apart only when there’s a knock at the door. “Room service,” calls a muffled voice.

“You better get that,” says Roger, hanging back in the bedroom while Rafa opens the door and the waiter pushes the cart inside. They eat side by side on the sofa, fish and rice and something with German sausage that Roger particularly wanted. “It’s like at home,” he says, convincing Rafa to try some, but the tomato sauce makes him wrinkle his nose.

Rafa leans back against the cushions when they’ve finished. “Are you…?” he begins, and sighs. “Are you nervious?”

Roger smiles. “Nervious,” he repeats with Rafa’s pronunciation. “Yeah,” he says. “A bit. You?”

“Yeah,” says Rafa, a little dreamy around the eyes, unfocused. “Me too.”

He puts his empty plate on the table and shifts closer to Rafa. “Look,” he says. He puts his arms around Rafa, holding him. Rafa leans against him, fitting into the curve of his body. “About what Toni said.”

“Forget what Toni said,” says Rafa, shaking his head. “Toni doesn’t know.”

Roger hesitates, looking into Rafa’s eyes. “Toni does know, though. He knows you.”

“And I know you, no?” says Rafa, as if it’s as simple as that. 

And maybe it does encompass all of it, all the little heartbreaks for the sake of this. “Ohhh, Rafa,” he sighs, pressing kisses to his mouth. “I’m going to make sure they know how real this is. I want them to know how much I love you.”

“Sí,” says Rafa, gently pressing the back of his fingers to Roger’s face, tracing along his jaw. “Yo también te amo. I want them to know this, too.”

“Yeah,” says Roger. “We’ll tell them.” And he feels his heart well up with something complex and overflowing, a physical sensation like an ache, a pull between them, drawing them impossibly together

 

Later, when Rafa is lying beneath him, naked and golden against white cotton sheets, he says, “Maybe this had to happen.” He pushes his hips against Rafa’s, feeling his hardness, grinding down a little, just softly, watching Rafa’s face flicker with it, the gentle, broken “oh!” from his mouth. “Maybe it’s good that it happened. Maybe it’ll be easier now.”

Rafa slides his legs apart, cradling Roger against him, holding him, his hands roaming over Roger’s back, down the dip of his spine. “Maybe,” he says. Then he pushes up gently, turning them over, straddling Roger’s hips and bending low over him. Roger can see his freckles in the low light, the soft shadows on his face, the lines deeper now than when this all began. He himself looks the same, he knows: his cheeks thinned out, his forehead a little more creased. The sun they soak up deep into their skin furrowing their faces. But it glows, too, as it’s doing now in the lamplight. Rafa moves against him, sliding their cocks together, taking them both in hand. “Maybe is nearly the end of all this anyway,” he says. “Tennis. Travelling all the time, no?”

Roger’s breath hitches as Rafa starts to move, his hand already slippery with the thin fluid welling up out of both of them. “Do you think it will be easier then?” he says, his voice already a little rough with want.

“I don’t know, Rogi,” says Rafa. His eyes flicker closed and his jaw goes limp as he runs his thumb over the heads of their cocks, pressing the undersides together. “Maybe easier. Maybe I don’t see you so often. We can’t know the future, no?”

“We can make the future,” says Roger. His palms are on Rafa’s thighs, stroking up and down, feeling the strength of them around him. “When we’re finished, we’ll see each other all the time.”

Rafa looks down at him, dark-eyed, the kind of look Roger remembers from the early days. The one that sees right through him. “Not all the time,” he says. Then, melting into a small, knowing smile, “But I hope enough.”

“Yeah,” says Roger, as Rafa reaches for what they need. “Enough.”

When Rafa sinks down on him, taking him inside, for a moment he’s not sure there could ever be enough.

 

There’s more in the morning, impossible to resist in the sleepy warmth of the bed, so they end up getting up late and scrambling for time. They leave the hotel through the kitchen, through the bustle of breakfast service, past bleary-eyed kitchen porters, pushing out the door into the delivery courtyard and into the car. Neither of them misses breakfast; they are too keyed up to eat. They reach the site early enough to avoid being spotted. Michael Stich meets them at a side door to one of the buildings. He’s one of the few people in the know, impossible to orchestrate this without him. “Roger,” he says, nodding hello. “Rafa.” He directs them through corridors towards the media centre and into green room, where orange plastic chairs are lined against a white cinderblock wall. “Everything’s ready,” he says. “We’ll be letting the media into the press room in about forty minutes.” 

“Okay,” says Roger.

“Would you like anything while you wait?” he says. “I can send someone to hospitality.”

Rafa shakes his head and Roger says, “Just coffee, if that’s okay.”

“No problem,” says Michael. He’s about to leave when he stops at the door and turns. “Listen, guys,” he says. “I just want to say that I think it’s fantastic what you’re doing today. I know it’s not easy.”

“Thank you,” says Rafa, almost formally, but smiling a little all the same. “We have no choice, no?”

“Yeah, I know,” agrees Michael. “Shit situation, but still.”

“Thanks, Michael,” says Roger, clasping his hand. “And thanks for setting all this up.”

“It’s no problem. Really,” says Michael. “Anyway. Good luck.” He gives them a last smile, a last nod, and leaves them alone.

Rafa stands, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, hands deep in the pockets of his sweatpants, while Roger sits in one of the uncomfortable seats by the wall. “ _Now_ I’m nervous,” he says, looking up.

Rafa nods. “Sí,” he says. “Me too.” 

“You don’t look it,” says Roger. Rafa looks relaxed, almost smiling.

“No?” says Rafa. Then he smiles for real, his face dimpling. “Maybe I am also happy.”

“Yeah?” says Roger. He stands up again, nerves snapping through him. He presses his face to Rafa’s shoulder and Rafa hugs him, kissing his cheek. Roger sighs loudly. “Maybe me too,” he says. “This is definitely the right thing, isn’t it, Raf?” he says.

Rafa nods. “Sí, Roger,” he says. “Yes. I think so.”

“We couldn’t just ignore it.”

Rafa shakes his head. “No,” he says. 

“Price of fame, I guess,” says Roger. He feels Rafa’s energy now. He’s caught it. “I just want to get on with it.”

“Sí,” says Rafa, checking his watch. “Thirty-seven minutes.”

“Okay,” says Roger, inhaling a deep breath. “Thirty seven minutes till everything changes.” He laughs a little, from nerves and adrenaline and something else, something giddy and joyful unfurling deep in his chest. “Are you ready?”

“No,” says Rafa, laughing, too. “Not at all.”

Roger grins at him. “Me neither,” he says.

They both feel it, the build of energy crackling in the air, and so when they walk into the press room it feels like walking into a lightning storm. Camera flashes flicker in waves across the banked rows of journalists and photographers, all of whom rise to their feet in astonishment. Nothing can be made out in the din, and against the onslaught Roger reaches out for Rafa, just touching his hand, their fingers lightly clasping as they walk onto the podium and take their seats.

It takes some time for the storm to abate, but when it finally does, they begin.


End file.
